Gloria Grahame’s gin-and-tonic glances sidelong at Miss Grahame, desperate for feminine pointers. She presses an ice cube against her lemon peel, hoping to curve it ever more seductively. A bead of moisture rolls down the outside of her glass, and although that might be considered embarrassing, she feels a little lighter, a little lither. Now she’s staring at Bogart’s gin-and-tonic, staring so hard, but he’s just oblivious, apparently content to be nothing more than a measly gin-and-tonic. Why doesn’t he have bigger dreams? Why can’t he transport her? She stares even harder. ⠀